


The Forest Again/After the Battle

by nox_candida



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst, Deathly Hallows Spoilers, First Kiss, Implied Character "Death", M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-12
Updated: 2011-11-12
Packaged: 2017-10-26 00:22:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/276500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nox_candida/pseuds/nox_candida
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is the Boy Who Lived, and he knows what he has to do to end the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Forest Again

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt at sherlockbbc_fic which asked for fic with John as the Boy Who Lived. I wrote the first bit and then the OP requested a sequel; both are included here. Edited from the version posted at the meme.

John Watson came back to himself face down on the floor of the headmaster’s study. His hands were remarkably steady, but it was small consolation in the face of everything else.

He knew--absolutely knew--what he had to do now.

He had to die.

He was the final piece of the puzzle, the final Horcrux, and the thing was that he couldn’t even bring himself to be angry about it. It was cold certainty that slid down his spine at the knowledge of what he was--why he’d been kept alive and protected; it was all for this moment. Destroy all of the Horcruxes and then destroy the last one--John--and Voldemort is mortal. Voldemort can die.

The brilliance of it, the sheer elegance of such a simple solution, hit him in that moment and nearly stole his breath. Dumbledore’s plan had been brilliant, elegant, and eminently _logical_. It was enough to make his thoughts strayed to his Slytherin friend because it was the sort of cold-hearted logic that he thought would appeal to Sherlock, the kind of plan that he--or, perhaps, his elder brother--would have come up with had they been in Dumbledore’s position.

Because it would not fail, of _course_ it wouldn’t fail. John would not falter now, when it was within his power to save everyone he loved, everyone he cared for.

 _”Do you think, like Dumbledore, that caring will save them?” Sherlock asked angrily._

 _“Yes,” John answered firmly, shoulders squared to his friend and his posture stiff, hands rubbing idly at his legs in a desperate bid to keep his composure._

 _“Then you’re a fool. Of course, I already knew that,” Sherlock sneered. “It’s always been your fatal flaw and it’s going to get you killed.”_

 _“What is?” John asked, gritting his teeth. Even though he knew—absolutely **knew** that so much of their anger was being fueled by the Horcrux Sherlock was wearing around his neck—that knowledge did nothing to assuage it._

 _“You care too much,” Sherlock accused him, advancing on him menacingly. “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named knows that, is **counting** on it, and you’ll end up getting us all killed!”_

 _“You don’t know that,” John fired back, exhaustion and despair warring with his sense that love--as Dumbledore had always told him--made all the difference. He’d been trying for years, without success, to explain as such to Sherlock. It was usually an argument they avoided; their positions on this particular battlefield were well-entrenched, but with the Ministry fallen, with long, hard days of fruitless searching weighing them down—weighing him down, making him feel like an absolute failure--he’d reached the end of his rope. Caring for everyone, thinking of the lives he could save, was all that kept him going, some days._

 _“I do,” Sherlock said coldly, drawing himself up to his full height and looking down imperiously. “You try so hard to be the hero, John, but it won’t bring your parents back and it **won’t** repair your relationship with your sister.”_

 _John’s teeth clenched and he balled his hands into fists, but Sherlock wasn’t done yet._

 _“You have to face up to the reality that there are no such things as heroes. I’m certainly not one, and neither are you.”_

 _As he launched himself at his best friend, as they rolled on the floor and fought desperately, some small corner of his mind wiggled uncomfortably with doubt because Sherlock Holmes was many things, but he was hardly ever wrong._

John blinked and stared around this room that he’d visited countless times in his days at Hogwarts.

That fight--months ago--had sown the seeds for the truth he was facing now. Dumbledore had not been a hero. He’d been a brilliant, power wizard who’d flown too near the sun, who had suffered great personal loss as a result of his own faults. John’s own father was no hero. While he’d stood in defiance of Voldemort, done everything he could to protect his family, he’d mercilessly teased and tormented a man who, initially, hadn’t deserved it.

His sister was no hero, letting her grief eat her alive, turning her into a bitter woman.

And he had come to the realisation that he was no hero, either. He had many flaws, too many to list, and his inability to deceive, his lack of faith in others—his _hero_ complex—was one. Sherlock had not been wrong about that. But what John had to do now was no gallant sacrifice, no honourable stand. He was keeping the most evil man alive, just by being alive himself. It was a duty—his duty, a thankless task—to see that he died so Voldemort could as well. As much as he wanted to flinch, to walk away, he knew that he would not.

There was no sense in delay; their grace period was almost up and there was nothing that he could say to the people he cared about. They’d try to stop him, they wouldn’t--or, perhaps, couldn’t--understand. Best not to tell them, really.

John took a deep breath and put on his Invisibility Cloak, quietly slipping out of the headmaster’s office and quickly making his way out of the castle and towards the forest.

He’d just stepped out of the castle--doing his best to ignore the bodies that were being brought in--when he nearly ran into his best friend.

Sherlock’s head perked up and he glanced around, eyes unsettlingly keen and nose flaring. “John,” he whispered, staring some two feet off to John’s left. “I know you’re there under your cloak.”

How, he wanted to ask, but stopped himself. This was _Sherlock_ , so of course he knew. He’d probably observed an odd ripple in the air, or saw a small patch of grass get crushed under his feet.

John halted and stared at his friend indecisively. Stay or go, stop and talk for a moment or stay still and wait for Sherlock to move on.

Sherlock took the decision from him when he flung out his long left arm and groped at the air, nearly smacking John in the face in the process.

Sneaking off wasn’t go to work, John knew--should have known, really--so he carefully stuck his hand out and lightly gripped his friend’s wrist.

Sherlock, to his credit, only startled slightly, and didn’t protest as John led him around the corner of the castle, into an alcove that was hidden from the front.

“John,” Sherlock hissed, shaking his hand free. “You’d better not have been going to the forest.”

He didn’t answer right away, taking a moment to lower the hood of his cloak so that Sherlock would know where he was.

Those eyes--those piercing, sharp, ever-changing eyes--roved over his face, taking in every piece of evidence, every secret that John wished desperately to hide, and turned, if anything, even paler than usual. “You were,” he murmured. “And you weren’t going to tell anyone.”

John sighed and looked around, aware of the clock ticking, aware of how little time he had to find Voldemort and end this, once and for all.

“Yes,” he said, because there was no sense in lying. “I have to face him. I can’t let this continue, because people will die and...and...” he trailed off, unsure how to say, _I know how to stop it. I’m the only one who can._

Sherlock stared at him for a long moment, his eyes calculating, his massive brain analysing the evidence he’d collected. “You’re determined. There’s no talking you out of it, is there? Not even if I point out that strategically, tactically, logically you’re making precisely the wrong move.”

John almost smiled, but he wasn’t sure he had it in him, and he wasn’t at all certain it would turn out to be a smile. The weight of the world sat on his shoulders, a burden that became heavier and more difficult to bear the longer he waited.

“No,” he said.

Head tilted thoughtfully, Sherlock seemed to consider this, and then gave a small, sharp nod. “Fine. Let’s go.”

John’s heart leapt painfully into his throat, a knot forming in his stomach. Feelings intruded for a moment, and he was aware of how much he _hurt_ \--physically from the hard fight, mentally. Emotionally.

That Sherlock would stand by him, would walk to almost certain death with him, was not news, but it never failed to cause his heart to pound hard, his throat to close up. And any other time--indeed, every other time--he would have smiled in gratitude, would have _welcomed_ it.

But not this time.

“No,” he said again, more firmly.

“Why?” Sherlock demanded, leaning forward and down so that they were staring at each other.

John swallowed hard, willing his face to not give him away. “Because I have to do this alone.”

“Something’s happened,” Sherlock muttered, eyes surveying John’s face intently. “There was something in those memories you got from Snape--”

“Yes,” John said, looking back at his friend. “And I know what I have to do. And you can’t come.”

“Don’t try to be a hero, John,” Sherlock snarled at him, hands gripping his shoulders painfully. Though Sherlock had managed, thankfully, to avoid his injury.

“I’m not,” he answered. “I have a job to do, a duty. I _have_ to do this.” _And if it saves everyone, if it saves **you** , then it’ll be worth it._

Sherlock stared at him, opening his mouth to protest, but John didn’t have the time. Their deadline would be up soon and if he waited around, if he let Sherlock argue with him, then his sense of purpose might waver. Worse, he might just be convinced to allow Sherlock to come with. And that was simply unacceptable.

So while Sherlock was gearing up to launch into some rant, some no-doubt extremely well-thought-out and logical argument about how he should have Sherlock with him, he withdrew his wand, pointed it at his best friend, and thought _Stupefy!_

Sherlock had just a moment to look surprised--or possibly offended--before his eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed into John’s arms.

“I’m sorry,” John whispered, gently tucking his friend further into the alcove. “I’m so sorry, Sherlock, but I have to do this, and you can’t come. I can’t have you in danger and I can’t have you see...” He couldn’t finish the thought, just like he couldn’t resist leaning down and placing a tender kiss on Sherlock’s forehead.

 _I’m sorry_ , he thought as he took one final glance, and turned his back, drawing his Invisibility Cloak back over his head.

John carefully picked his way towards the forest, resolutely keeping his face forward and doing his utmost not to think of the person he was leaving behind.

He was nearing the tree line when he spotted Harry Potter walking amongst the bodies, obviously looking for anyone who needed help.

John came to a halt, thinking. The only other person who knew what had to be done was Sherlock, and he’d...

He mentally shied away from finishing that thought, instead clearing his mind and attempting to be rational. Practical.

Someone else had to know what to do, at least in a minimal sense. He might not get the opportunity to finish his task--probably wouldn’t, actually--and, though Dumbledore had told him to keep it secret from everyone save Sherlock, well. It made sense that two people knew now and two people would know after.... After.

John carefully removed his cloak and approached Harry, clearing his throat. “Harry.”

Harry looked up at him, his green eyes widening slightly. “John. What are you doing here?”

John thought about answering, but it wasn’t really important now, was it? What was important was relaying the information about Nagini.

“You know Voldemort’s snake? He’s got this huge snake that he keeps with him. He calls it Nagini.”

Harry nodded, eyes wide and fixed on John.

“It has to be killed,” he said firmly. “Sherlock knows, but he’s...” John trailed off and bit his lip, then plowed on. “Anyway, he knows about it but he might not get the chance. But if you see the snake, and you’ve got the chance...”

“Kill it,” Harry said, looking grim and nodding.

“Right.”

Harry nodded once more, and John took a deep breath. He hesitated, and then turned back to the other boy, who was still watching him. “Can you get someone to look after Sherlock?” he asked. “He’s unconscious, on the side of the castle and I don’t want him to...”

“Yeah,” Harry said, looking as though the task was distasteful. John had always been friendly with Harry, but he and Sherlock had never warmed to each other. In point of fact, they loathed each other, Sherlock taking every opportunity to denigrate and belittle Harry’s intelligence and Harry doing his utmost, as a prefect, to make the Slytherin’s life miserable. John suspected it was because of his father and Harry and Draco’s well-known rivalry. John couldn’t blame him; Draco was a bully, a cheat, and a liar, but the fact was that Sherlock was nothing like that. In fact, he hated Draco more than Harry, though only John was really privy to that. Still, it meant more than he could say that--despite all that--Harry would still do this for him.

As he moved on, snuck into the forest when Harry had turned away and put his Cloak back on, he marvelled at how it could have been Harry instead of him. Had Voldemort chosen differently, had he believed that the prophecy referred to Harry instead of himself, then Harry Potter would have been the Boy-Who-Lived. Harry Potter would have been marked, would have been the Horcrux and he--John--would have had a family who loved him. His sister might still have been bitter--she’d already been born a Squib, after all--but his parents would have been there to help her. They would have been there for him, and he would have grown up as an ordinary wizard, not famous or tragic or with part of Voldemort leeching off of him. He never would have had to concern himself with prophecies, would never have been so familiar with death, would never have been magically injured during the fight at the Ministry--a bum shoulder and an on-again, off-again limp.

His life would have been so different, so much more ordinary.

But would he and Sherlock have become friends in that life? Would he have been tops in his class at DADA?

Would he have played some other position in Quidditch, like Chaser, instead of being a Beater?

He certainly wouldn’t have had the constant danger, wouldn’t have had such an _interesting_ life.

He might have been useless in this moment, might not have had the ability to end the war once and for all.

And that was something.

It was the thought that carried him forward--that he could protect everyone, that he could protect _Sherlock_ \--to Voldemort, it was what kept him resolved to see it through to the bitter, horrible end.

He really didn’t listen to Voldemort’s taunts, his grand speech. He didn’t listen to his triumph.

All he could think about--the only thing in his head as he watched Voldemort raise his wand--was Sherlock.

His best friend, the boy he’d met at eleven, the one he’d grown up with, the one that frustrated and fascinated him, the one who was brilliant at everything except Quidditch and Care of Magical Creatures, the one person who made life worth living--really living.

The boy he loved.

And that was the thought--the image--he held on to in a rush of green light.


	2. After the Battle

“John!”

John Watson turned around slowly from his perch at the edge of the Astronomy Tower. He’d come up here when it was all over—when Voldemort was well and truly dead—and it suited his mood. A little damaged, removed, a perch high above where he could observe everyone and everything from a distance; a place from which he could see the enormity of the damage. From here, he could see where the North Tower had collapsed entirely, the huge divots and scars in the land from the giants, the scorch marks left over from spells.

It was a safe place away from everything, a place where he could see it all before he was made to feel it.

Of course, he wasn’t surprised that Sherlock had found him—he’d basically considered that an inevitability—though he had hoped for a bit more time alone. He had no idea, after all, how his friend would respond to being stupefied and left unconscious.

To say nothing of being left behind.

“Sherlock,” he said carefully as he watched the tall, pale Slytherin prowl gracefully towards him, only to come to a stop just inside his personal space. This was nothing new, of course; Sherlock had a tendency to be ignorant of—or completely disregard—such things as propriety and space and respecting boundaries.

“You were a Horcrux,” Sherlock stated without preamble. “That’s why you went to meet Voldemort.”

The reality of that statement—despite everything he’d been through over the course of the night and into the morning—still had the power to startle him and it was all he could do not to physically react to it with more than raised eyebrows.

“Yes.”

Sherlock was silent for a long moment, his eyes as intense and focused as ever. “You walked to your death,” Sherlock said, much more softly this time, still straightforward—almost flat—in delivery. But John had known Sherlock for far too long at this point to mistake it for anything other than the emotional statement it was.

It surprised John, distantly; he still couldn’t really feel, was still a little hollow, but he knew the grief, the rage, resolution (that nasty tangle of mixed and jumbled emotions, so many and contradictory) hovered at the edges of his awareness, ready to slam into him like a beater bat to the head.

Sherlock was _emotional_. In fact, if John was reading him right—and he suspected that he was—Sherlock was overwhelmed by emotion.

He wasn’t going to mention it—it wouldn’t have really been fair--so he simply nodded.

“How?” Sherlock asked, sounding bewildered by the concept.

Perhaps it was confusing; if self-preservation was instinct—the strongest sort of instinct—how could he (how could anyone) knowingly disregard it and walk to death?

He wasn’t sure he could explain it in a way that Sherlock could understand.

“I had to,” he said finally. “It was necessary.”

Sherlock stared at him blankly, as if he’d spoken Gobbledegook, rather than English.

John sighed, running his fingers through his hair, turning back to look over the edge of the Tower, down at the world below.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said, licking his lips and watching people—the size of ants—wander from place to place, gather in little groups as they reaffirmed their existence, as they mourned those who were gone. “I wasn’t trying to be a hero. It was just. It was a duty. Logical. For the—” he stopped himself before he could say _greater good_ (because weren’t those words something nasty, now he knew about Dumbledore’s past).

“It was for everyone.” _Especially you_.

He slid back to the floor, crossing his legs and looking down at the castle—some parts of it utterly destroyed, some in remarkably good shape, all things considered. It was the place that had been his home for most of the last seven years and despite it all—or maybe because of it—it was still more home to him than anywhere else he’d ever been.

Sherlock sat next to him, their knees almost touching. The silence that stretched between them was mostly comfortable, as their silences tended to be, but he sensed his friend tense and vibrating, a string stretched, ready to snap. So he waited.

He wasn’t disappointed.

“But _how_? Why?” Sherlock exploded, hopping up to pace around the Tower. “It’s not _logical_!”

John craned his head around to watch his friend’s progress--back and forth, back and forth. “Isn’t it?” he asked mildly.

“ _No!_ ” Sherlock shouted, turning to look at him, running his fingers distractedly--almost frantically--through his already wild curls.

“But it is,” John insisted quietly, turning back to look at the world below. “What’s one life to all of this? Dumbledore knew that--”

“Dumbledore!” Sherlock snarled viciously and John huffed a little breath in something that, at some other time and place, might have been amusement, were things different.

“And he knew that I would see it the same way,” John finished, after a brief pause.

“But you’re--” Sherlock started to say, cutting himself off. The surprise of hearing Sherlock speak seemingly without thinking made John turn to look at his friend curiously.

“I’m what?”

Sherlock glared mutinously, but John knew that it wasn’t directed at him; rather, he suspected that it was directed inward for having started to vocalise the thought at all.

A thick sort of silence hung in the air between them.

“Special,” Sherlock mumbled, looking away.

“Really?” John asked immediately, so surprised by Sherlock’s admission that he spoke without thinking. Because as much as he hated it, as much as he tried to pretend that he was someone ordinary and normal, there was no denying the fact that he was special. He had a scar and a prophecy to prove it--that is, if being the person to end Voldemort’s reign of terror wasn’t enough.

Sherlock glared at him, so John hastily amended himself. “I mean, apart from the, you know, Boy-Who-Lived stuff.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock scorned, finally deigning to return to his seat next to John. This time their knees touched. John made no move to move away. “Who else in your house can say that they actually want to spend time with a Slytherin?”

John shrugged, but he knew well enough to know that the answer was _no one_. Certainly everyone knew how much Harry Potter and Ron Weasley disliked the Slytherins, and he suspected that no one would blame Dean Thomas for feeling the same way--to say nothing of Neville.

Sherlock must have known the direction his thoughts turned because he sneered, “Which, by the way, thank you for leaving me to Potter’s tender mercies.”

He might have laughed, but the amusement died when he thought of how that situation had come about.

“Sherlock, about that...”

“There’s no sense in apologising if you don’t mean it,” Sherlock interrupted, his body turning slightly away from John. And John--inexplicably--found himself missing the feel of Sherlock’s bony knee against his own.

“I....wasn’t going to apologise,” John replied honestly. He didn’t regret it; things had turned out for the best and Sherlock tagging along would have meant that John would be grieving his best friend right now.

“Good,” Sherlock said firmly, swiveling around to face John.

“Right,” John said, his mouth opening and closing, groping for the right thing to say.

They stared at each other for a long moment, before Sherlock cleared his throat and looked away. “What you did...that was...good. It was good.”

“You mean...the...” John trailed off and waved his hands around, trying to indicate the moment he had stupefied his best friend and left him leaning against a castle to go off into the forest to face Voldemort alone. It was an entirely useless gesture as Sherlock wasn’t even looking at him.

“Yes,” Sherlock managed to say, sounding like he was pained, or possibly just deeply uncomfortable; likely both.

“Oh.”

They were both silent as they digested what Sherlock had just said.

“Thanks,” John said belatedly, realising that he probably should, even if he wasn’t entirely certain why he was saying it.

Sherlock nodded stiffly. “And...”

“What?”

“I was wrong,” Sherlock mumbled, determinedly not looking John’s way.

“About what?” John asked, startled. Sherlock was almost never wrong and, if he ever was, he never admitted it.

“All those months ago. Almost all the time I’ve known you. I tried to prove to you that heroes don’t exist...” Sherlock trailed off, glancing at John out of the corner of his eye. Something hot and tight stuck in his throat and he had to look at the people below, at the sky, at the rest of the castle. Anywhere but right beside him.

“I’m not,” he mumbled, when he found his voice and could force it past the blockage in his throat. His face burned and his eyes stung, and he found himself staring at his dirty, cut up hands.

“John, don’t be stupid,” Sherlock said, but it lacked the bite that disparaging remarks about his intelligence usually contained. It was, John realised, almost fond. Warmth curled in his stomach and goosebumps broke out along his neck and arms.

“That wasn’t....I wasn’t trying...I didn’t....” John stuttered, ultimately falling silent when he realised that organising his thoughts and speaking coherently was currently beyond him.

“You’ll never make me one,” Sherlock said brusquely, his voice sounding a bit hoarse. “But you...”

John cleared his throat and coughed once or twice for good measure. “Thanks,” he mumbled, hoping desperately they were finished with the overly emotional part of this conversation. He wasn’t stupid; he knew he had days and weeks, months and years to feel all of the emotion--embarrassment, grief, anger, sadness, pain, relief--of this moment and the ones that would follow. But it would be nice if just for now—with just the two of them alone together, away from the prying eyes and the swarms of people--he could fall back into something that was less charged, less fraught.

He was just thinking that he might like to ask Sherlock something--anything--to retreat to normality, when he felt a brush of fingertips against his knee.

John startled and stared at his knee, where he could see long fingertips make another pass against them before turning palm up and resting hesitantly.

He gulped and stared at the pale white palm, his heart racing in his chest, stunned. He wondered if it meant what he thought--what he _hoped_ it meant--and his gaze flew up to take in Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock, who was determinedly looking over the side, acting as though he hadn’t rested his hand on John’s leg in a clear invitation.

An invitation which John felt compelled to take. Slowly, carefully--as if he might startle a wild animal--he reached his hand out and rested his palm against his friend’s.

It was warm and soft and a little bit dirty and calloused. John watched in fascination as Sherlock’s long, thin fingers curled around his own, watched Sherlock squeeze his hand once. And then Sherlock’s whole body abruptly relaxed, the tension released so forcefully that it practically jolted John from his comfortable sitting position.

“How do you feel about London?” Sherlock asked, his tone one John had heard a thousand times--a little excited, a little impatient, clipped and quick. It was so normal, so _typical_ that John almost couldn’t find his voice.

“London...?” he asked, mystified by Sherlock’s non-sequitur.

“Yes, do keep up. There should be plenty of crime there to keep me busy--”

“Crime? You mean, as a consulting Auror?”

“ _Obviously_. And, of course, St Mungo’s is in London--”

“Wait--”

“John,” Sherlock said, finally turning to look at him. John was baffled by the stern look on his face. “You’ve always wanted to be a Healer and the only place to do that is St Mungo’s. As your Boy-Who-Lived days are behind you--what?”

John almost grinned at the annoyed look on Sherlock’s face--so comfortingly, blissfully _normal_. As it was, though, the weight of everything else was still too near, too large to allow it. He settled for a smile that he was certain was tired, exhausted, and quite possibly overwhelmed. “It’s just...you’re planning our lives, just like that? Do I even get a say?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and tugged John closer--John’s heart sped up, a shot of adrenalin at the thought of leaning in close to his...to Sherlock--and held his hand tightly. “As much as I care for you--” John’s heart lurched in his chest and he shivered in something that felt very much like happiness, “you do have many weaknesses, chief of which is strategy. Oh, you’re good with the practical things,” Sherlock continued, waving his free hand in a dismissive gesture that John--despite himself--found endearing. “And that’s why I’ll leave you to find us a flat that we can afford.”

“Thanks,” John said, though he couldn’t be angry, not even when Sherlock gave him a nod of acknowledgement that was simultaneously supercilious, imperious, and mocking. This probably had everything to do with the soft look in Sherlock’s eyes and Sherlock’s hand holding his.

“Wait,” he said after a moment, sitting up straighter having noticed Sherlock’s words. “You want me to find _us_ a flat?”

“Are you sure that you didn’t lose some of your limited intelligence earlier?” Sherlock asked, leaning forward to peer closely at John.

“Oh, piss off,” John said irritably and, in a bid to forestall any further remarks on his intelligence or lack thereof--a topic about which Sherlock was never at a loss for words--he leaned forward and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s.

It wasn’t the best kiss he’d ever had; the one he’d shared with Mary Morstan after winning the Quidditch Cup the previous year was still better. And it was all more than a bit awkward, what with John having bumped his nose against Sherlock’s cheek and Sherlock being so surprised he didn’t respond at first (and when he did, it was clumsy and a little too wet), but it was the most brilliant kiss he’d ever had. There was something about the knowledge that this was Sherlock--the smell of him, the feel of their lips and hands pressing together--that made it surpass every kiss he’d ever experienced (and, he thought irrationally, any kiss he ever _would_ ).

He would have loved to stay that way forever, feeling Sherlock’s lips and mouth, Sherlock’s exhalations against his skin and even his tongue, but he reluctantly pulled away. He suspected that this brief respite from the world, their demands and needs was just that--brief.

“We should probably go,” he said reluctantly, though he made no move to stand or even to move away.

“If we must,” Sherlock said with a scowl, but pulled himself and John to their feet. John found himself unable to look away from Sherlock’s face--the slight fullness and redness to his lips, the pale pink suffusing his cheeks, the hazy (well, hazy for Sherlock) look in his eye.

John took a long moment to remember Sherlock just like that--to really look at him and commit his face and voice and being to memory--before managing a slight smile. “Ready?”

Sherlock smirked at him, turning away and tugging on his hand for John to follow. “Always.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [3 Witches, a Wizard and a Squib: 5 Conversations that Shaped Sherlock](https://archiveofourown.org/works/378186) by [Ishmael](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ishmael/pseuds/Ishmael)




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